


American Hero

by freneticfloetry



Category: Journalism RPF, Sunshine (2007)
Genre: #Yulechat Challenge 2011, AU of an AU, Gen, Icebergs, Pay No Attention To the Timeline Behind the Curtain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freneticfloetry/pseuds/freneticfloetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Insert witty story summary here. No, seriously, go right ahead. I’ve got nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	American Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lizzen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/gifts).



> I love [this article](http://www.gq.com/entertainment/movies-and-tv/201107/chris-evans-gq-july-2011-cover-story?mbid=social_retweet) to bits and pieces, your letter was absolutely adorable, and despite the deadline crunch (and the belated realization that I'm RPFing), I couldn't _not_ write this. Because I don't want to live in a world where that prompt did not get written. Merry Chris(Evans)mas, Lizzen! Hope you enjoy.
> 
>  _Sunshine_ characters belong to Danny Boyle, I'm just borrowing them for awhile. Edith Zimmerman belongs to herself, I'm just... I don't even _know_ what I'm doing, but I really hope she doesn't take it personally.

_"they sent you to the principal’s office? daaaaamn. just don’t piss your pants (like last time)."_

Here’s the thing: I’m sure there are countless places more terrifying to find yourself than the wrong side of Jim Nelson’s desk at nine o’clock on a Monday morning. War-torn countries. The lion habitat at the Central Park Zoo. A midnight showing of the new _Twilight_.

It’s just that, sitting here, none of them really seem like less appealing options.

There's no telling who the text is from – half the office has to know by now. And I can't risk another look at my phone, not when Jim could come back at any moment, summoned by the smell of fear. Contrary to popular belief, I hadn't actually wet myself the last time. I guess losing all semblance of bladder control made for a better story than a spilled latte.

Though I can't say I hadn't come close.

Perhaps I'm making a mutiny out of a Monday meeting. So I've sent some questionable content to print. So my methods could be deemed unorthodox. So I have a teeny tiny tendency to take advantage of a subject's flirtation, farmland, or follicles in the name of journalism. When all is said and done, my features are always attention-getters, Jake Gyllenhaal's hair _totally_ grew back, and – despite being relegated to fact-checking for a while there, verifying which slasher flick had provided the cover bunny of the month their start (usually some variation of _I Saw What You Screamed Last Hostel Halloween_ ) – I still have a job.

Really, how bad can this be?

The executive elevator chimes in the lobby, and I swear the emerging footsteps fall in time to the sound of the _Jaws_ theme.

"My nine?"

Maybe it's not too late to opt for one of the lesser evils.

"In your office, sir."

With one of those _Hurt Locker_ suits and the right submachine gun, I could probably take out the lions, the werewolves, and a good chunk of the Twihard apocalypse.

Jim sweeps into the room, tosses a briefcase down on his desk, and drops into his chair with a groan. "Edith."

Well, shit.

"So," he starts wearily, "Garrett Hedlund."

"Chief, it was his bright idea to play chicken with the tractors."

"A fact which did not prevent the finance department from cutting him a five figure check." The glasses come off – a spectacularly bad sign this early in the proceedings – and he pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"That it would make a great human interest piece?" The look he shoots me is equal parts bitter and _"bullshit"_ , and I wince before I can catch myself. Damn Garrett Hedlund. Damn his gristly twang and his good ol' boy grin and his great-granddaddy's goddamn moonshine (which only tastes like used motor oil until the fourth glass. Or so.).

The whole package is nonsensical. I mean, the guy spent the better part of his adolescent years living in _Arizona_.

Jim leans forward in his seat, and I barely resist the urge to back away in full-on retreat. "Here's the deal," he says. "I like you, Edith. You're quirky, you've got a great attitude, and you've got one hell of an interesting approach. I thought the Chris Evans thing was amusing, in a train wreck sort of way. I let the Downey debacle slide since, let's be frank, where there's Downey, there's going to be a debacle. But you really screwed the pooch on this one."

Somehow I doubt a well-meaning "my bad" will suffice.

"So you're saying it's not gonna run."

"Oh, it'll run. It's a damn good story." He drums his fingers on the desk. "But it doesn't matter that it's good. And it no longer matters that I like you. All that matters is that the folks upstairs are none too happy with you at the moment."

Right. What he's saying is that I'm fired.

I suppose this is the part where I pick up my check, pack up my coffee mug and my Colbert bobblehead, and schlep back to Brooklyn, Charlie Brown-style.

He pulls an envelope from his briefcase and holds it out to me, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess what's inside. So this is how slaves to the written word get the boot. Not with a Trump-patented catchphrase, but with _literal walking papers._

I manage to take the thing without shaking like a Parkinson's patient (or even Anne Hathaway's attempt at playing one). "What's this?"

"Your last shot," Jim sighs, and shoos me away. "Try to stay out of trouble."

\---

If I had any lingering doubts about being in the doghouse, they're gone now. I am squarely in the doghouse. And the doghouse looks suspiciously like a center seat in coach and the last no-tell motel in Brevard County.

To be fair, when a ship full of folks who've saved the world returns from outer space, touchdown central's going to see an uptick in tourism. I'm lucky not to be bunking in some local's basement.

I haven't had a chance to fully familiarize myself with my newest subject – elbow room on the flight down had been nonexistent, thanks to a swiftly-knitting grandma and a mountain of a man with curiously soft forearm hair – so I plop into the desk chair and break out the dossier.

"Okay, last chance," I mumble, flipping the file open, "let's have a look at you."

No picture, but he's impressive enough on paper. Mason Phillips, Jr. Hails from suburban Seattle, degree from U-Dub in mechanical engineering (with a concentration in mechatronics, whatever the hell that means) courtesy of the ROTC, four years as a First Lieutenant with the Air Force Research Laboratory.

I take it back. He doesn't sound impressive. He sounds like a boy scout.

And boy scouts don't typically get their interviewers hammered.

Downey is a single malt man. He'd made it extrasensory – the taste, the tumbler, the little twinkle in his eye, all a patented part of the delightful Downey ego experience. Gyllenhaal made it a game – he swore he'd shave his head if I tried some lutfisk, and all went well until the Scandinavian brandy that had made the bet seem like a good idea came back up with the fish. I believe I mentioned the moonshine. But it had all started with Evans. Not with the glasses of white wine that came first, but the many Irish car bombs that came later.

There's no danger of a debacle here. No showdowns with heavy machinery, no close encounters with clippers. Not a train wreck in sight. One would assume there's no drinking game for mechatronics.

In other words, I am _home free._

Though it might be nice to be able to use it in a sentence.

\---

There's an honest-to-god ticker tape parade. The crowd lines the streets of Cape Canaveral, screaming for the procession and flooding the square at its end, easily fifty thousand strong. And growing.

Forget seeing the stage. I can't even see the _screens_.

My slot is scheduled for five, so I've still got several hours to kill before the National Guard and the Secret Service and god knows who else whisk me away to some top secret location to meet with Mason Phillips, science savior. Which sounds more than a little ungrateful. I rejoiced with the rest of the world when the sun got its groove back, even brighter than I remembered. (Said rejoicing may have taken place at a premiere party with a very-legal Zac Efron, his very grown-up stubble, and a very large pitcher of very potent margaritas.) But that was then. And while I remain happy as hell to be alive, nearly two years have gone by, the happy has buried itself under everyday bullshit, and now I'll be happy just to keep my job.

The thought of being crushed by the hero-worshipping horde, though, is decidedly unhappy.

The hotel is deserted when I finally make it back. The bar's done one better, dark as hell and locked up tight. Probably for the best, as I have been told to steer clear of trouble on pain of unemployment, and human interest happy hour is where all the trouble lives.

I am not an alcoholic, I swear.

It takes longer than I remember to prep like a Responsible Journalist – peruse the press pack, put the finishing touches on my list of questions, plug "mechatronics" into Wikipedia.

So, mostly responsible.

Which begs the question: what does one wear to an interview that doesn't involve boozing it up with half of hot young Hollywood? Pencil skirts and cateye glasses? A cardi set of some kind?

I'm still contemplating this (in jeans) when the knock comes, and holy crap. I was kidding about the Secret Service. Apparently, they did not get the memo.

The town car would be a nice touch, were it not for the fact that I'm bookended by muscle in mirrored Aviators and the windows are so dark that I wonder if the sun has gone out again, so I can only clutch my notebook for dear life and hope the next security step isn't a burlap bag over my head. I can't panic now. It's my last shot. I am sober. I am responsible. I am going to salvage my career.

I would really like to do so without pissing my pants.

The Royal Mansions Resort is probably a beautiful place to vacation, with all its private balconies and beachfront villas. At the moment – clearly on lockdown, and crawling with soldiers and spooked staff and men in black (some with sizable bulges beneath their blazers, and not just in that good way) – it feels a little like Alcatraz. And the feeling only gets worse when they march me through one meeting room and into another, plant me at a table, and step back to regard me in silence.

Seriously, I'd have an overwhelming urge to pony up the nail file in my purse, had it not already been confiscated.

MIB #1 (whom I've dubbed "H", as in _holy hell, are you huge_ ) has a quick conversation with his cufflink – it's cute, how he honestly seems to think that's covert – and three men emerge from a door on the far wall. Three men in full-on dress blues, I might add. And I'm not even in my _good_ jeans.

Two peel off the outside, but the one in the middle marches to the table. He sweeps off his cap with one hand, holds the other out to me, and I… ignore it completely. Because I've just gotten my first look at Mason Phillips.

Who looks, to put it mildly, more than a little familiar.

This may be my cue to panic.

"Lieutenant Phillips," he says, and I can't do shit but blink, because _it's not just the face._ So I sit there, struck stupid, staring like an idiot, and he raises a brow over puzzled eyes. Blue eyes. _Evans_ eyes.

"Miss Zimmerman?"

 _Fuck,_ I need a drink.

\---

Quick, say something professional.

"Sorry, men in uniform," I blurt, and _wow_ , was that not the something I was looking for.

I close my eyes for a second, and when I open them again, he is somehow still the spitting image of Chris Evans. Though Evans would be amused here. Flattered, even. At the very least, he'd save me from myself with some blatantly flirtatious and borderline inappropriate reply. Mason Phillips just watches me, with an expression that is decidedly unamused (and vaguely uncomfortable).

Oh yeah, this is going well. It's a wonder I can stand without tripping over my own feet.

"Please, call me Edith," I say, finally shaking his hand, and it's an odd sensation – roughly smooth, like high grit sandpaper. Not Evans in the least. I make myself smile. "It's a pleasure."

"Mind if we take this outside?"

It's so abrupt that my smile slips – what exactly are we about to do, rumble? – but I shake my head. "Not at all."

We head out to one of the villas with MIB escorts in tow, though his fellow soldiers have stayed behind. He doesn't sit until I have, then tugs at his herringbone tie, looking out over the water to where the sun hits the horizon. I'm instantly reminded of sitting across from someone else, someone wearing the same face and waxing poetic about the perfect sunset.

_How is this my life?_

"I didn't mean to be rude in there," he says after a while. "Just can't take much more of that room."

The contrition doesn't catch me as off guard as the candidness, and I hope the surprise doesn't show. Candid works, candid is good. Candid I can definitely do.

"Don't mention it. I think a little cabin fever is to be expected." I lay a digital recorder next to my notebook and roll it – we're not officially underway yet, but more often than not, I've found, there's something worthwhile in the warm-up. "Not to mention the junket burnout. How many does this make for you?"

He rubs his fingers along his forehead almost wearily, something I don't recall Evans ever doing. "Fifteen? Maybe twenty. I honestly couldn't tell you, they all started to blur together. Could be worse, I guess. Capa's been at it all day."

According to the updated call sheet, the waiting list for Robert Capa is longer than a James Cameron shooting schedule. _TIME_ had barely scored a sitdown. Which is probably why I'm sitting here with Icarus II's System Specialist, trying like hell not to picture him in tights.

"Remind me where you're from, again?"

This man is not Chris Evans. He is not Chris Evans, and he is not asking about me personally, and we cannot bond over beers and Boston and bad dick jokes while he casually holds my hand. (To his chest.)

"GQ?" It comes out in a squeak, and I clear my throat, as if that will magically help me get it the fuck together. "That wasn't actually a question, I'm from GQ. It's our Men of the Year issue." I pause for a joke, or a quip, or any kind of clever comeback at all, really (the tiny Chris Evans on my shoulder is already giving me all kinds of eyebrow action, going _"Which month am I?"_ and _"Would you look at this GQ motherfucker?"_ ), but he just nods and folds his hands on the tabletop. It's disconcerting, and I suddenly feel the need to fill the silence. Which I could logically do by, say, asking any one of the numerous questions I have prepared.

As a consistently illogical person, I'm almost certain that was _never_ going to happen.

"About the… uniform thing, before? I wasn't… it…" – mayday, mayday, you may commence making sense _at any time now_ – "I didn't think the Air Force allowed you to dress for interviews."

He snorts and smiles all at once. The first time he's smiled since I laid eyes on him, and it's one that I don't know at all. On my shoulder, the angelically devilish little Evans goes _poof._

"The Air Force just had a hand in saving the world," he says. "They didn't allow, they insisted."

\---

Two questions in, it's obvious that Mason Phillips is never going to make a jerk-off joke in my presence. The tiny part of me that's feeling morbidly nostalgic can't help but be disappointed.

Why I can't seem to refer to him as anything but his full name, full stop, as if he's the Jordan Catalano of my journalism career, remains a mystery.

We talk about his time in the service, the type of work he's done for the Research Lab, the tweaks he made to the original Icarus mainframe. Touch on the tiny town he grew up in, whose biggest claim to fame is a fairly successful NASCAR driver. He's matter-of-fact with all of his answers, almost painfully so, but there's nothing I hadn't already found in his file. Except…

"So this is kind of in your blood," I say, double-checking my notes. "Your father was in military science as well, right?"

He nods, but everything has sort of tightened – his shoulders, his fingers, the set of his jaw. "My dad designed planes for Boeing, yeah."

"He's retired?"

"He's dead."

Which was _so_ not in the file.

I fumble for a reply, an apology, _anything_ that will salvage this mess, but can't push past the foot in my mouth. Go figure. He sips his water and waves the whole thing off. "It's fine," he says. "We weren't all that close."

Since they'd obviously shared a gift, a career, even a name, that seems more than a little tragic.

I mean to return to the regularly scheduled program – this is GQ we're talking about, nobody's really in it for the manpain – but my mouth still won't cooperate. "Is there anyone you _are_ close to?" I ask. "I mean, three years? That can't be easy."

In stating the obvious, I could be crossing a line (though that's ever stopped me before). Then again, I've already dredged up the memory of his dead dad, so how much worse could it get?

And yet, there it is. The look on his face – which can, at best, be described as pained, and at worst might signal some onset of space PTSD – is somehow so, _so_ much worse. Forget train wrecks, this is shaping up to be a derailment of epic proportions.

"I've got two sisters. They…" He shifts in his seat, shakes his head, and then the look is gone, replaced with carefully schooled features. If he actually _were_ Chris Evans, this would be Oscar-caliber emoting.

"You do what you have to," he says. "Doesn't matter if it's easy or not."

His eyes are fixed on mine, a graver blue than Evans' ever were in my presence, and I press my lips together and look down at my notebook. Time to get things back on track.

"Scientifically-speaking, on a scale of one to ten," I start, "just how traumatic _is_ the Vomit Comet?"

\---

"How can you hate Starbucks? _You're from Seattle._ "

"Starbucks, Pearl Jam. Flannel in general." He shrugs. "It's a sickness."

Things are chugging along now, full steam ahead – he's settled back in his chair, seemingly more at ease, even smiling once in a while.

"Fine, whatever," I say. "Since you didn't miss the macchiatos, what'd you most hang on to from home?"

"Are we talking Seattle, or Earth as a whole?" He turns his empty glass on the table. "We used to take the ferry across Puget Sound, hang out on one of the islands. Something my mom started with us when we were little. With the climate change, the storms would kick up these waves… Better than a waterpark."

He turns to the beach, where the tide's just coming in. The weather's held out all day – though the water's still an open invitation to hypothermia, the sandy stretch is long free of snow, and the temperature's inched into the 70s. All things I had experienced over time. But when last he was here, this had all been a picturesque postcard for widespread nuclear winter.

The Space Coast stretches on for miles, and the lights from Kennedy blaze just beyond, a sight I've only seen, before today, in Discovery Channel documentaries and bad Bruce Willis vehicles.

It had taken Hollywood all of five minutes to figure out how to turn a profit on a dying planet. Idris Elba had saved the world from an extinction-level blizzard. Efron had saved the world from extraterrestrial snowmen (which apparently called for tequila all around). Even Ryan Gosling got in on the action. (Granted, he was saving the world from ex-pat venture capitalists who wanted control of the wealth of new icebergs – tastefully, dramatically, and near-mutely, of course – but still.)

But the impending end had also marked the rise of the superhero. For every exploitative disaster flick, some costumed, caped crusader had been plucked from comic obscurity to fight purely fictional battles.

The world didn't want to be saved on film. The world wanted a moustache-twirling villain to give evil a face, and a muscle-bound hero to punch it.

There are eight real-life heroes now, one of them not four feet from me. It has to be strange to save a world that's utterly changed when you return, and all at once, I wonder if anyone's bothered to fill them in.

"Is it weird to be back?"

"Honestly wasn't sure I would be," he says, slowly rubbing his hands together. "So I guess that's a yes."

"Well, it may not fill in thirty-six months' worth of gaps," I say, slipping my phone out of my pocket, "but allow me to show you the single most important technological breakthrough of the past few years."

His brows pull together. "Really," he says flatly. "The new iPhone."

"No." I tap the app and grin. " _Tumblr._ "

\---

We've been through the basics (he doesn't seem surprised that zombies are the new vampires, but the death of MySpace seems to shock him almost as much as Bin Laden's) and hit all the viral essentials (LOLcats, Double Rainbows, the always-entertaining Old Spice Man) when MIB #2 – "S," for _silent and slightly smarmy_ – informs me that my time is up. Which is a shame. I hadn't even gotten a chance to flex my Wiki-fueled "mechatronics" muscles.

And, truth be told, somewhere between _Community_ , CoCoGate, and covering the number of _Saw_ s there've been in his absence, I'd grown rather fond of Mason Phillips.

"Not exactly CNN," I say, because oh man, I really don't want to be the one to tell him that Steve Jobs is dead, "but all in all, pretty painless, right?"

He winces. "Jury's still out on The Human Centipede."

" _Mostly_ painless, then." I pause, hand halfway to the recorder. "Seriously, never watch that. Unless you want to lose all faith in humanity."

"Hadn't planned on it." He stands, so I do, too. "Did you get everything you needed?"

"Sure," I lie. Since I have no clue how many pertinent questions lie unanswered in my notebook (though the ballpark is big enough to make me cringe), I'm almost positive the appropriate adverb is "badly."

"Then it was good to meet you."

He holds out a hand again, and this time I take it like a normal person. The gold of his newly-awarded astronaut pin gleams on his chest, a shining sun where the star should be. "The pleasure was mine, Lieutenant," I say, and squint. "I feel like this is my cue to thank you for saving the planet before we go our separate ways or whatever. Is that incredibly cheesy?"

"Yeah, it really is." He grins this time, and dammit, I'd be lying if I said that it's anything less than amazing. Maybe even moreso than Evans. "And it's Mace."

\---

There are no villas at my little hamlet, no balconies or beachfront views. But there _is_ a message waiting when I get back, and when I dial in to get it and it starts to play, I damn near drop the phone.

 _"Hi, it's Mace, Mason Phillips,"_ he starts, like I've forgotten who he is in the time it took me to make it back to the room. Though, considering the men in black, there very well may have been memory wiping involved. _"I just, uh, wanted to say thanks. For catching me up. Even if it was… really weird in places."_

Mmm. That was probably the Tumblr talking.

 _"So listen, it's not a press event, but there's a thing tonight. For the families, some of the project staff. You should come. Off the record. Have a drink, meet the crew. Maybe be cheesy with them for awhile. It's uh…"_ There's rustling in the background, the scratch of what must be the phone against his shirt. _"Eight, at the Gallery Club. I'll leave your name at the door. Okay."_

I listen to it again (because really, who wouldn't), then hang up the phone, trying to figure out how the hell he'd tracked me down. There have to be covert government shenanigans at work here. Big Brother, bugging my phones, tracking my movements, watching me sleep like a stalker.

Or it could be that random moment when he'd mentioned that his suite's bathroom was bigger than his entire bunk on board, and I'd said something like, "must be nice. Sadly, the same cannot be said for the Sandman Motel."

It's definitely one of those two.

An unexpected invite to an exclusive after-hours function, a function for some of the most important people in the world right now. God bless you, Old Spice Guy. I just need to steer clear of the booze.

And change out of these damn jeans.

\---

Getting into the Gallery Club isn't quite as simple as giving my name at the door. I also have to hand over my ID, suffer through a thorough sweep with a handheld metal detector, and endure a full-body pat down. Security pretty much stops just short of a cavity search. Which is awesome, as I'd left before laundry day and am currently wearing granny panties.

Inside is not unlike any after party I've ever been to. Sure, there's music and dancing and the lights are turned down low, but there's no choreographed army of strobe lights, no starlet slinking out of the bathroom with curious powder on her upper lip, no DJ blasting "Golddigger" every hour on the hour. This… this is understated and overwhelming all at once.

Truth be told, I've gotten so used to navigating the overblown Hollywood scene that I'm not sure I can _do_ tasteful.

I spot Mason Phillips – Mace, dammit, _Mace_ – in a corner across the room, conversing with a pretty young blonde. He's talking with his hands and looks infinitely more relaxed in his skin, and I'm not sure what to do until he looks up and waves me over.

They are both, I should note, wearing jeans.

"Hey, you made it," he says when I'm in earshot, and I nod.

"Yeah. Just had to outrun the bomb-sniffing dogs. Surprisingly not that easy in heels."

He snorts, then turns to the girl and hooks a thumb in my direction. "This is Edith. She's a little strange."

Can't exactly argue there.

She turns big blue eyes on me and smiles, and I know before she even opens her mouth. "I'm Charlie," she says, "this one's sister."

I shake her hand and glance around the immediate area. "There are two of you, right? I mean, obviously not two of _you_ , unless you're a clone." They're both blinking at me, kind of scarily in-sync, so maybe I'm not wrong. "Or it's a… twin situation?"

Mace scratches at his eyebrow and shakes his head. "Sara's pregnant," he says finally. "Can't fly."

"I'm sorry," I say, because he looks a little disappointed. "About her not being here, not the twin thing. Although, that too. But hey, congratulations on becoming an uncle."

A little disappointed turns into a little destroyed, and Charlie pipes up with, "He's an uncle already. She's got a two-year old," and _man_ , am I batting a thousand.

I scrounge up a smile. "Well congrats on that, too."

This is so much easier with booze.

\---

He doesn't circulate, only mingles when someone literally drags him away, but I'm left alone with Charlie more than a few times. She's every bit as animated as he is no-nonsense, and already I like her immensely.

"I bet you're both glad to have him back," I say this time around. "He mentioned that your father passed away."

Her eyes go serious and stormy, making her look more like him than ever. "My father left long before he died. It was losing my mom that was hard."

It's something he hadn't mentioned during the interview, and the journalist in me can't help but ask. "When?"

"Twelve years ago last month," she says. "She had an aneurism. And it wasn't hard in the way you're thinking, we got to stay together and stay in our house and stay in private school. Dad made sure we were taken care of. But Mace was the one who was there."

\---

Charlie heads back to the hotel, and I'm back in the unsure place again until Mace pulls me into a circle of smiling men. He fires off names and ranks like a good soldier – Haru Kaneda, the mission's captain, William Searle, their resident doctor, navigator Trey Chien.

There are worse places to be.

"Cory's around here somewhere, I think she went to get a drink," he says. "You want anything?"

Oh god, do I.

"I'm good, thanks."

A woman comes over, tray of shots in hand, and slides in next to Mace. He introduces her as Corazon Xiang, the ship's on-board botanist, with a warmth in his eyes I've only seen with his sister, and some strange part of me is irrationally happy he'd had a real friend out there.

Robert Capa is reluctantly holding court by the bar, completely surrounded, a brunette who can only be the pilot by his side, and I look around at the crew as a whole, wondering if I've wandered back to Hollywood, after all. These people are too pretty for real life.

Corazon hands me a shot of something, and I start to object, but they're making the rounds all across the club. Then Kaneda steps back, clears his throat with unmistakable authority.

"To the Icarus I," he says, and raises his glass. The crowd follows suit, toasting to a lost crew whose names are on high schools in their hometowns and street signs around the world.

And, okay, in context, one drink won't hurt.

\---

Mace starts out easy, nursing a Heineken for longer than should be allowed and lulling me into a false sense of security. "I haven't had a drink in three years," he says. "Just testing the waters."

The vodka comes out after about an hour, so the water's apparently fine.

For the record, Mason Phillips is a screwdriver kind of guy.

\---

He's in midsentence, saying something about something, when I get it, and I grab the bar to stop the room from tilting and laugh so loud he jumps.

"Oh my god," I choke out. " _You're_ a screwdriver."

And that's officially the last thing I remember.

\---

I blink back to life with my head on something cushy and my hair in my mouth. Sadly, it's not the first time.

Outside the window, the sky is just starting to lighten. It's entirely possible that I'll be able to sneak across the room and slip out the door and…

"You okay?" a voice calls softly, a voice I know all too well. Doubly well, if we're counting his doppelganger.

Mace is standing in front of the bed when I sit up, hands raised like he's confronting a wild animal. "Sorry. This place was closer."

"That's okay," I say, blowing at my hair. "It happens."

He's right about the bathroom. It's bigger than my entire apartment.

\---

### The Man Who's Walking on Sunshine

_Don't call Mason Phillips a hero. At least not to his face._

_That may be exactly what he is to his family, his crew, and all eight billion people on the planet. But saying the word in his presence will only earn you a good laugh. "I am not a hero," he says. "I'm a mechanic who went to space camp."_

\---

A week after the issue goes to print, I get to work to find flowers on my desk. Giant, golden sunflowers, with a Phillips-head screwdriver taped to the front of the vase.

 _Just a little something to remember me by,_ the card reads. _P.S. Who the hell is Chris Evans?_


End file.
